


no one told you when to run (you missed the starting gun)

by wanderlustt



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Romance, This is just pure indulgence because Cullen deserves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderlustt
Summary: “You’re afraid to hurt Cullen. Probably ‘cause you think he’s too good for you,” says Varric. “So instead you go on hurting yourself. Makin’ up excuses for why you can’t be together, yada yada yada. My take? It’ll all blow over. War’s gonna end, you’ll pine longingly after one another, and neither of you are ever gonna fess to the truth. Curly’s probably gonna get hitched to some nice Fereldan girl and you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what could’ve been. He’ll probably wonder too. You’ll make up excuses, tell yourself you did the right thing, and die with your honor on your shield.”He eyes the mark. “Or on your hand.”
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	no one told you when to run (you missed the starting gun)

**Author's Note:**

> this is straight up just how i went through the romances in the game+DLC in the span of a week. did not solasmance and watched that on youtube because i did not want my heart broken by egg but now i regret it bigly.... that last scene man..... that last scene........

1.

Blackwall is the first.

Tepid and oblivious in a delightful sort of way that belies something dark and tortured. Laera finds herself drawn to him immediately, slipping him compliments he pretends not to hear. _You look dashing today; wonder what those hands are capable of off the battlefield; you have your pick of the litter with the tavern girls here in Redcliffe_. Offering him time in between missions, time she doesn't afford anyone else. Hankering to hear more of his stories with the Grey Wardens, even if they are vague to a point of pointlessness. To a point of unknowing.

He had a good life once, she learns. He danced, he drank, he flirted with local tavern girls with no expectation of free drink. It had been a life of simplicity, though he thought of little else but what came in the morning. She’d laugh at his stories and ask him if he’s talking about the same man she’s staring at, and he’d chuckle too—though there had always been an ounce of wariness withered away in whatever laugh he deigned to offer her. Wariness that masqueraded as indifference. And solitude.

She considers this one night, as she watches him oil his swords by the campfire.

"If I told you I found myself drawn to you, what would you say?" She asks, cupping her chin and studying him across the way, wondering why it is that half of him in the shadows is what compels her so.

"I'd say you were makin' a mistake, m'lady," he replies, so full of mirth it borders on charmless resentment.

She frowns, "That's not the answer I wanted to hear."

"We rarely get an answer we want in life." So cryptic and listless, one has to wonder who actually hurt him so. "I'm doin' this for your sake, m'lady."

She decides she can make this an answer she wants.

"So you're telling me I can hope," she throws out, wondering if it'll stick.

It doesn't, of course, but that doesn't stop Blackwall from meeting her gaze across the fire and smiling that rare smile--that kind of smile that she feels like she's earned.

*

“He’s…charming, I suppose,” is Dorian’s assessment of their flirtationship. “If you fancy a bit of hair.”

“What can I say? The beard is irresistible,” she replies, lounging on his reading chair, studying the new import of books sitting unopened in their wooden crates.

"And beyond that?"

She clears her throat, suddenly feeling somewhat defensive when she catches a look of pity on his face, “He’s lived. Wisdom often comes to those who have. I find myself drawn to that.”

“My dear friend, an older man is not wise by virtue of being old.”

"You think I seek his company because he's old?"

"I think you seek his company because you're lonely," he replies. "We all are. It's the nature of our duty."

“Perhaps,” she sighs. “Or perhaps I should learn that lesson on my own.”

He sighs, taking her hand gently in his. Patting it in that tender way that brings her a breath of comfort. “The world sits at your beck and call. You could bed half the kingdom and no one worthy of name would say otherwise,” he says, oddly delicate about it. “If the old fart makes you happy, then who am I to stop you from making the greatest mistake of your life?”

“Your counsel is, as always, absolutely appreciated,” she sighs, standing up from the reading chair. “If you had it your way, you’d sooner see me bed the lord commander.”

“If I had it my way, _I’d_ be bedding the lord commander.”

She smiles, wryly, “A shame. For both of us."

*

 _I’m not a good man_.

Blackwall would let it slip every blue moon, but now it’s a reminder every time Laera asks about his family—his friends. His time before all this. Before the Inquisition, even before the Grey Wardens. He doesn’t like dwelling in the past, doesn’t like dwelling in what he can’t change, but he doesn’t look much at the future either.

“You seem…stuck,” she tells him one day during their journey through the Hinterlands together, and it's enough to make him laugh about it, so bitter and cool it seemed like she’d struck some kind of a nerve. Some kind of...clue that she's actually on the right track. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I’m not worthy of your help, m'lady."

“Please stop saying that,” she’d told him somewhat stiffly, coming to a stop at the peak of the mountains that overlooked a quaint little waterfall. "You're worthy."

She doesn’t tell him she wants to traverse the terrain of all his cracks and hypocrisies, pick them up, and tether them together. She doesn’t tell him that broken pieces can mend too. She has just as many cracks, just as many holes--just as many--

She has a whole world sitting on her shoulders.

But she figures she can tell him that another time.

“You're a good woman, m’lady.”

For now, she allows herself to be taken away by the winds of flirtation and no promises.

“I think I fancy you,” she tells him over drinks one day in the barn—and this is right after he’d taken a blow for her during a pretty close call with a band of rogue mercenaries. Still unaccustomed to people putting their lives on the line, quite literally, for her sake. Another reminder. She must be perfect, lest another life is lost at her hands. "And I think you fancy me too."

She’d been worried sick thinking he’d probably broken a rib, but he’d gone on with all of the fervor of a new soldier in the ranks with something to prove, and absolutely none of the grace. She found that…incorrigibly adorable. Sweet, almost.

"Pace yourself, m'lady. He doesn’t look particularly surprised, still working through his first pint of ale, “You said you fancy me?"

“Yes. I suppose I do.”

He pauses, “You’re sure?”

“Must you make me repeat myself?”

He smiles, “Wouldn’t be opposed to hearin’ you say it again. Right and proper."

“I’ll say it all you like,” she says, “perhaps in my bed chambers?”

He holds off on taking his last sip of ale.

“We should stop this, m’lady,” he tells her quietly. “Before things go too far.”

“You make me happy,” she tells him, and for some reason, it brings him pause. “Do I—am I to assume that only goes one way?”

“Of c—" He pauses. "Oh, Maker’s balls.”

He cups her face, and kisses her as hard as he can. She can hear the echo of what he doesn’t say aloud: _I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy_. He’s still learning about himself. For some reason, it brings her more relief than she expects.

He carries her up the stairs, away from prying eyes. And he makes love to her quietly, until she’s melting in the afterglow of sweat, exhaustion, and pre-morning soreness.

*

Blackwall fucks like he has all the time in the world. Slow and gentle, like he’s trying to savor every moment before it slips right through his hands. He’s hesitant, every move so full of trepidation that he seems like he’s mulling over whatever consequence may come his way before it can even…come. Laera wonders if it’s possible for someone to fuck without intent, but she supposes it’s not a matter of intent at all.

She just knows it's excruciating.

“What’re you afraid of?” She asks, suddenly, curling up into his chest. Hairy and thick, prickling her cheeks.

“I—suppose I’m afraid to hurt you," he says, stroking her bare shoulder. Pressing a kiss onto her skin and pulling away before it turns wet.

“I’m not fragile,” she says, quietly. It occurs to her only then that he might need more coaxing about this than she does. “And—for what it’s worth, I want this.” She touches his face, so gentle and chaste it nearly brings tears to his eyes. “I want you.”

He throws what little hesitation he has out the window after that, diving into kiss her. So full of passion and love, or whatever version of love he’s managed to unlock from the depths of his wary soul that’s been locked away. “You’re beautiful,” he tells her, and the slowness doesn’t come to a stop quite yet—it comes with a bit more urgency. He's still holding back, but he's also burying himself and losing himself inside her.

A woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders. And a man with the weight of something else.

*

She’s asleep when he leaves in the morning.

She’s awake when he returns to her a different man.

He returns to her as Thom Rainier.

*

Cullen is the one who bails him out. He doesn’t ask many questions, doesn’t offer her any counsel she doesn’t need—he seems like he knows she’s already learned her lessons. “If you need anything, you know where to find me,” he’d said, as they returned to Skyhold.

_I’m here for you._

“Thank you, commander,” had been her response.

*

She learns something quick. You can prescribe a man all the value and worth in the world, but he’ll never recognize it until it’s staring him dead center in the throne room with his lover deciding his judgment.

“You wore someone else’s skin,” she tells him, and the solemnity in her voice is staggering. It screams _we’re done_ without any of the actual screaming. He just lowers his gaze, understanding. Once upon a time, he told her he wasn’t worthy of her. She said that was a lie. Maybe he was right all along. “Your feelings might've been real, but--well, I suppose it doesn't matter now. Not anymore, anyway."

It's a foregone conclusion.

"I'm sorry, m'lady."

He’s already made up his mind. He’ll walk the path of repentance until he’s withered away to ash. Maybe he’ll drink, maybe he’ll dance, and maybe he’ll meet a serving girl along the way who shows him the warmer side of things he thought he never deserved. Maybe one day he'll wake up and realize he does deserve it after all.

She stays behind after sending him to the Grey Wardens, feeling the fresh wax on the handles of the throne. She figures if she tells herself she doesn't care--she'll start believing it one day, but all she feels now is the sting of betrayal, that feeling of anger--that burns into disappointment, then despair.

She could've loved him, she thinks. _Now I'll never know_.

"Are you...alright?"

She blinks up to find the throne room empty, save for Cullen standing before the throne. Carrying notes in his hands, no doubt from the war room. She's eager to tell him she doesn't need the condolences, except she really does--and the sentiment is enough to remind her there's a world outside her torrid love life.

"I'm fine," she tells him with a gracious smile, which belies some kind of truth too. "It's all a bit...frivolous, yes?"

He studies her face, carefully, "It isn't frivolous. He was--a friend. You have the right to--" He's stumbling, looking down at his reports as if those words will offer him the right thing to say. "I support your decision. That's all."

_You deserve better._

She looks down at her lap, "Thank you, Cullen."

_I know._

He nods, ready to bid farewell, but comes to a stop at the door, holding his hand firm over the knob, “Perhaps we ought to…get a drink…you and I. That throne--sit on it too long and you'll all but forget there's a whole world waiting for you outside this castle."

_Let's get you out of here and remind you you're still you._

It looks like it’s taken every ounce of effort the Maker is willing to offer to get these words out. She notices, of course, but it comes with a pinch of disdain too. He has a look on his face like he’s already received an answer he doesn’t want.

"We couldn't have that, could we?" She pauses, a smile breaking wide on her face as she takes a breath and leans back in her seat, “Perhaps I could do for a drink right now."

_I don't feel like me, but I'm willing to try._

He beams.

 _The little victories_.

2.

Iron Bull is next.

This is after she throws herself into work. This is after she starts going on missions, saying fuck-all to tomorrows, and cornering Bull after a particularly harrowing dragon hunt in the Western Approach.

In a tent. In _his_ tent. She goes under the guise of treating his wounds, but ends up kissing him on a particularly jagged scar on his shoulder when he’s not looking. It takes him by surprise, which is ironic because the Bull is _never_ taken by surprise, but that surprise eventually turns into desire, then _want_.

“Hey— _you_ —” He pauses, hands sitting square on her shoulders. “Did you plan this?”

“Certainly not,” she tells him, smiling.

 _I did plan this_.

“Good. I don’t like plans,” he says. “Live in the moment while you can. Save the planning for someone else.”

She laughs. It's a beautiful sentiment, “That’s easy to say when you don't have an entire army depending on you.”

"It's especially easy for me to say _because_ I have an army depending on me," is his retort.

"You're telling me you and the Chargers...just wing it?"

"I'm telling you to live while you can," he says, cupping her face. "And not get swept up in the perils of unknowing."

But he’s right, although the sentiment would be righter for someone else, someone who didn’t have the eyes of Fereldan and Orlais upon her. _You can’t think about tomorrow without living in today. And today feels good—not knowing what’s ahead._

She figures she can put on the charm. What’s that old saying? If you pretend enough, you start believing it.

“Bull.”

“Yes?"

“Kiss me.”

He touches her face, palm so large and encompassing it consumes her whole cheek, “It might hurt.”

“A _kiss_?" She says, incredulous. "Really now?”

“Yes. Really,” he says, leaning closer in with that smile that spells trouble.

“I like a little pain,” she whispers.

He does. Gentle and chaste, even as she tries to part her mouth and deepen it. He prods away, one hand on her shoulder. Overwhelmingly big, enough to break her if he added even an ounce more pressure. “Anyone ever tell you to pace yourself, inquisitor?” He says, brushing away a lock of hair from her face.

“Once or twice,” is her reply, just coy enough to make him smile.

They pause, glancing at one another, taking in the feeling of new boundaries that're slowly vanishing into dust.

"No more plans then," she says, leaping into his arms, lips crashing against his.

*

"So. You've yourself a new--what is it, exactly?"

"Oh, Cullen." Laera takes a sip of ale. "A lady never kisses and tells." And then she beams, patting him on the shoulder, which is enough to jolt him out of whatever reverie he's apparently having. "Have you written your sister yet?"

Neither of them bring up Blackwall again. Neither of them bring up what happened at the prison. Neither of them really bring up Bull, without using vague monikers like _him, he, his_. And neither of them bring up the war. It's nice, she thinks, to have a friend.

He tells her about his family—his sister—and his time at Kirkwall, and she tells him about her life before the mark. When it was just hunting in the forest with her clan and figuring out what township they would trade at next. They have different stories, but there’s something kindred about his that brings her comfort.

“You deserve more than a world of trouble,” he says, suddenly, working through his fifth pint of ale. “You deserve something…”

“Easy?” She finishes for him. _I like spending time with you_.

“Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” he says. “I believe worthy would be more apt.”

She snorts, “I’d be happy if I never heard that word ever again—not until I’m buried six feet under.” _I like spending time with you too._

“What about you?” She says, flagging down the bartender for another drink. “Our dear lord commander must have plenty of suitors courting you outside these gates. Fereldan will have its skirt turned inside out by the time this war is over. Have you given it any thought?”

“Absolutely not.” He seems to skirt the issues of his suitors quite elegantly. Softly, then: “Not yet, anyway.”

A raucous chorus of laughter booms through the tavern, making Laera shift her gaze to find Iron Bull laughing over stories with Krem and the Chargers.

“Well, the best plans often go awry by virtue of being plans,” she says. _What if it’s not the right time for us?_

He looks disappointed but understanding too.

“Perhaps so.”

_I wonder when the right time for us will come._

*

There are terms and conditions that come with being with Bull. “Just friends” is what they agree to for the time being. 

They go to the winter palace, figure out what’s at stake, and complete their rescue operation without a hitch. Laera is exhausted, but that exhaustion comes with a punch of relief that almost tastes like _victory_. They’re so close—too close now.

She can finally see the end at the end of the tunnel.

And she also sees… _pining_. Very obvious pining. For her dear lord commander.

“Seems you’ve got yourself quite the gallery,” she says, catching him by the table of appetizers with a plate of completely untouched food. "No appetite?"

“Not at all. The Game tends to upset the stomach,” he says, and it comes with all the denseness of a rock that’s probably seen better days under the sun. “I’ve nothing to offer these ladies."

She cocks her head to the side, “You’re the lord commander of the Inquisition. A handsome one, no less. And chivalrous. Any woman would be lucky to have you.”

He blinks, “You think I’m handsome?”

His cheeks are pink.

It's...cute, she thinks.

She offers him a knowing look, as if to say _bold of you to pretend like you don’t know_ , before turning back to the ballroom floor, where all the frilly dresses are swimming. “With your frequent visits to the dessert table, I suppose there’s no point in asking you to save a dance for me,” she throws out, hoping it might elicit a blush again.

“Not much of a dancer I’m afraid,” says Cullen, sighing. No dice. He looks delightfully out of place, despite having all the surface-level trivialities that would make the court his home. “Perhaps you’re better suited for a man who won’t trip on their own two feet.”

“Perhaps so.”

She smiles a wry smile, offering a nod of farewell before taking towards Iron Bull, who’s so far managed to scrape through the night without any serious casualties. At his discretion, of course. A remarkable feat, given the blades that’re tucked underneath his dress coat.

“Look at these people. These masks. These—damned dress shoes. Orlesian politics don’t suit me, neither do these pants. Too damn tight around the crotch,” he says, and one has to wonder if that’s a sentiment even worth voicing aloud. Still, it’s enough to make her smile as he goes on.

"You're telling me you're not enjoying the Game?"

"I'd enjoy what comes afterwards," he says with a wry smile.

"Does that mean we're going to skip the dancing?"

He laughs.

It makes her cock her head to the side, “Something funny?”

He looks at her, looking somewhat flustered. “I just didn’t think you were that kind of—” he says, pausing, only to realize the words have already escaped him. The sentiment has already escaped him. “Woman.”

"Neither did I," she replies with all the pep in the world that reeks of insincerity. “No, I suppose it was...a bit of a joke. It’s alright. I was—I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to,” she tells him with a smile. “It was more of a formality, that’s all. Since we’re—” Together? _No_. Friends. With certain benefits. Dancing probably isn’t included in that. “Look at me. Can't get out a single coherent thought tonight. Too tired, I suppose. Our dalliances with Florianne really took the wind out of me."

"You sure, boss?"

She eyes the table of food instead, “Just save me a plate, Bull.” And winks his way.

“Always," he smiles.

*

For a while, Laera stares out at the sky—this vast sky, bathing in the moonlight of their victory. Thinking what comes next but also thinking nothing at all. She wonders, of course, if she is the kind of woman who wants to dance, and not the woman who might prefer a night of drinking at the tavern instead. She wonders, of course, what she wants at all. The truth is, she probably doesn't know what she wants.

“Are you alright?”

She glances over her shoulder to find Cullen looking back at her, as if waiting for permission.

“You’ve been asking that a lot lately,” she tells him, turning back towards the moon.

He clears his throat, coming to a stop beside her, elbows barely grazing hers. “Someone has to,” he decides, at last, when the silence stretches too long for comfort—and then again when she decides to forego the pleasantries and small talk. “I was worried.” _About you_.

“Have I given you reason to worry?” _I’m sorry._

“Your disappearing act did,” he says, smiling. “Leiliana said you knew what you were looking for. Told me I would grow enough stress warts to feed all the crones of Crestwood by the time morning came.”

She laughs, “Thank you for putting that image into my head.”

He smiles, looking like he loves the sound of her laugh. Like that's been his greatest victory earned all night.

And then they fall silent again,

“Would you like to dance, my lady?”

“I thought you didn’t dance.”

“For you, I’m willing to try,” he says, offering a hand. “Just—promise you won’t laugh if I trip over my own feet.” _You look like a dream_. “Leiliana and Josephine would never let me live it down.”

“You know I would never, commander.”

 _You are a dream_.

*

And dreams don't last.

There are no promises here. Just forgetting. It’s rough, fast, and sometimes painful—and she’ll like the pain until she doesn’t. Until she wakes up one morning, looks out the balcony, and realizes she can’t pretend. She can't fill this void with a woman she's pretending to be.

“I want something…real,” she says, and this is before she realizes she’s voicing any of this aloud.

Iron Bull just blinks, “This isn’t real to you?”

“Is it to you?”

He’ll leave that night, quietly, not without fucking her one last time. And in the throes of whatever flames they have left—flames that quickly melt into the dying embers of glory days that are far past them—she closes her eyes and imagines another life.

In this one, she's living quietly in a cottage somewhere far, far away. No one can find her there, not the prying eyes of Orlesian spies, not Leiliana's crows, and not even her closest companions. She's alone, wading into the pond by her house, sinking deep until the water consumes her whole and letting go of the breath she's carrying in this life.

It's nice to think the weight of the world is someone else's burden here.

*

And then she drinks. Alone. Not in the tavern, where Bull and the Chargers are posted. And not in the courtyard, where everyone else’s prying eyes are watching. She drinks alone in the war room, staring at the map, counting the unmarked pieces that symbolizes more work to be done. There’s too many of them, staring at her. She wonders what Bull would make of them.

He’d probably take each one as a badge of honor. Make a little necklace out of them. _This is proof of our effort—our glory. Remember it. Remember today. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed_. She wishes she could see his face. Her heart aches a little less than she remembers, but the wears and tears remain.

The door squeals open. She recognizes the footsteps before the voice can take its place of announcement.

“Oh—I. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Cullen is standing there in the frame, looking very sheepish.

“No, stay. I wasn’t doing anything.” She stands up from her seat, unsure if she wants to greet him or stop him from leaving. “Couldn’t sleep.”

 _I'm glad you're here_.

He hesitates, as if to ascertain her offer before stepping in, the door closing silently behind them. Neither of them acknowledge it. “I can't either,” he tells her, and it comes with all of the solemnity of a man who’s all but given up on hiding behind some weary façade. “Nightmares.”

 _I'm glad you're here too_.

“Nightmares?” She sits back down, hesitant this time. “Will you tell me about them?"

He surprises himself when he does.

*

"Your turn," says Cullen, taking Laera's drink for her.

"Oh--I suppose it is," she says, hiccuping. Reaching for an empty cup, only to find that he's already downed the contents. "Well, my greatest fear is--I don't know what I'm doing." _Hiccup_. "And I'm afraid everyone's going to find out."

"Nonsense. Look at Skyhold. Look at all these--" When he sees that look of indifference on her face, when he sees that she literally could not care less, he takes her by the hand and pulls her to her feet. "Come with me."

*

He takes her to the barracks overlooking the courtyard, where soldiers are training below with their dull practice swords and shields made of lightwood.

"None of this would've been possible with you," he says.

"They're your men. You're our lord commander," is her reply, cool as ever. "You're making it too easy, Cullen. C'mon, now, give me a harder one."

He sighs, smiling, "You led us to Skyhold."

"Solas did," she says. "I just--I've been lucky. Or unlucky." She gazes down at the mark. "What do you think?"

"Luck is only useful with opportunity." He reaches into his pocket and hands her a silver coin. "Take this. Carry it with you." He doesn't offer any privy explanation, not that he needs to. She can tell how much this silver coin means just by holding its weight in her hands. "And make sure you don't lose it."

"I won't," she says, feeling the warmth of his palm still resonating on the surface of the metal.

"And for what it's worth, I feel lucky to have met you."

She blinks, cheeks flushing red.

"Now that's a better look," he says, smiling coy as he turns away and leaves.

3.

Solas had been the first to welcome her—and he would be the last to break her.

He led her to Skyhold, loved her without any expectation of having that love returned, and now his task was done. They’ll never kiss, but what they have is something more intimate. She’ll wonder if it’s love, but she’ll say what they’ve been through is a lot more intimate than love can aspire. A mutual respect, or admiration--she wonders if this is what Leiliana had with Divine Justinia.

She shows him the quiet parts of her no one else gets to see. The curiosity, the longing, the part of her that’s been tucked away. The history of herself that she never quite questioned, knowing most of it to be lost in the ether of lost ruins and fallen temples. She learns more than she could possibly ever learn about herself—and the more she learns the more she falls.

Yes, perhaps _fall_ is an apt word. She hits the ground and goes splat when she realizes he’s gone.

She doesn’t cry this time.

*

Cullen meets her at the tavern again, but there’s nothing awake at this hour. No patrons, no bartender, no songs sung by bards. Sera’s snoring quietly on the second floor, Cole meandering the courtyard with no endgoal. For now, it’s just the two of them. Waiting for dawn to come.

"He's gone," she says, quietly, finally breaking the silence.

He studies her. She looks a little wiser now.

“Is there anything I can do?”

She shakes her head.

“It’s not wrong to want,” he starts.

“We’re at war, Cullen. Wanting is…frivolous. Maker knows I’ve no time for it, not when I’ve a whole castle of men waiting for my next move. They’re depending on me—on us, I suppose." She doesn't tell him that her relationship with Solas was a different kind of want, born from knowing it could never be to begin with. But she just shrugs instead, “Marriage is a matter of convenience anyway.”

He snorts, “You’ve been talking to Josephine too much.”

“Our lovely ambassador is often right about a great many things.”

"That’s putting it mildly.” But then he falls silent, considering it with a ponderous expression on his face that belies doubt. “But she’s wrong sometimes too. No one’s perfect.”

“Of course. You come pretty close though, commander."

He lowers his gaze, “You don't mean that." _I love you_.

"Unfortunately I do." You _deserve someone better than I_. She smiles a sad smile, wondering why it is her hands feel so cold right now. "I have sadly gotten to know you--and you are perfect. It's terrible. A greater burden than being inquisitor, if there ever was one. I feel sorry for you."

But whatever embarrassment he had immediately vanishes when he turns to look at her.

"I don't," he says, and there's something longing in those tired eyes. Something understanding. "I--" Until he wakes up, jilted from the reverie of having stared too long. "I'm glad the Inquisition brought us together."

She leans against his shoulder.

“You smell good,” she says, and it elicits something of a laugh that turns into a cough, and eventually a blush.

He’ll do her one better.

“You smell good too,” he says.

“Really now?”

_You’re comforting._

“Yes.” He laughs, sweet and tired. “You smell like home.”

 _l love you. Is that so wrong_?

4.

“What about…” Varric pauses, gaze settling on the door to find Cullen looking very much out of place. “Ah, shit. Never mind. Forget I mentioned it.”

“That would require you actually mentioning something.” She picks up her cup and takes another swig of sweet summer wine, letting the liquor sit fat on her tongue before swallowing. “What is it?”

He strokes the stubble on his chin, pondering, “What about Cullen?”

She studies his face across the room. He catches it, waving at her. Awkwardly. Very awkwardly. She waves back before turning back towards her pint. “I suppose he does have that Prince Charming sensibility.” She has to stop herself just short of scoffing at the notion.

“Think you might be oversimplifying a bit, your inquisitorness,” he says, studying the tavern girl who’s making googly eyes at their dear lord commander. And then at Cullen, who’s doing his damnedest to avoid playing the part of the blushing bride. “Curly’s been through the ringer. And then some.”

She watches him for a bit, as he makes the rounds. Greets his men, slapping shoulders, offering to buy them drinks. “I know,” she says, raising her glass, but doesn’t take another sip, instead pausing as if to verify the accuracy of that statement. “He told me a bit about Kirkwall.”

“He did now?”

“Yes,” she says, suddenly understanding the implication of what he’s trying to say. “We’re friends, Varric. Good friends, I’d say. We’ve been known from time to time to confide in each other.” And then a breath, as if to expel whatever apprehensions are sitting thick inside her lungs. “He’s moved past it, from what I can see—or at least he’s trying to. There's merit in that."

He considers it for a while, nodding at his reflection in his untouched ale. “There are men who are tortured and let that define them,” he says. “Cullen isn’t one of them. He’s a good kid.”

"Kid--seems more like a man to me."

"Eh, yeah. Seems that way. All grown up."

She smiles at him, “Why haven’t you settled down?”

“Not interested," he replies, shrugging.

“Ah, so it’s a matter of interest.”

“It’s a matter of a lot of things.”

“You’ll never give me a straight answer, will you?”

"Never." But he considers it thoughtfully, too. “Listen, it takes an enlightened soul to see things for what they are.”

“Oh yeah?” She leans back in her seat, feeling the first wave of liquor cheer cloud her mind and probably less-than-stellar judgment. “Enlighten me then.”

“For starters, it doesn’t take a genius to see you’re afraid.”

“Afraid? That’s a bold thing to assume about an inquisitor who’s about to win a war to save the world.”

“What can I say? I’m a bold man.”

“So? Go on. What’s this bold man’s read about this inquisitor’s love life?”

“You’re afraid to hurt Cullen. Probably ‘cause you think he’s too good for you,” he says. “So instead you go on hurting yourself. Makin’ up excuses for why you can’t be together, yada yada yada. My take? It’ll all blow over. War’s gonna end, you’ll pine longingly after one another, and neither of you are ever gonna fess to the truth. Curly’s probably gonna get hitched to some nice Fereldan girl and you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what could’ve been. He’ll probably wonder too. You’ll make up excuses, tell yourself you did the right thing, and die with your honor on your shield.” He eyes the mark. “Or on your hand.”

She blinks, “Hey. Varric.”

“Yeah?”

“Screw you,” she says, clinking glasses.

He chuckles, “I’ll cheers to that.”

*

Except, there’s no real cheer in that when it’s the truth.

 _You’ll make up excuses, tell yourself you did the right thing, and die with your honor on your shield. Or on your hand_.

Laera tosses and turns in bed, wishing that someone were there to hold her off. To tide things over. She considers, for a moment, limping over to the barn where Blackwall is set up and stripping herself bare naked just to feel his tongue between her legs, only to realize he's already gone—so maybe the tavern's the next best bet, where Bull’s probably still around playing Wicked Grace with the Chargers. He could fuck all the apprehensions out of her tired muscles, make her tired enough to _stop thinking_. And she could wake up in the morning with a different kind of ache instead.

A different kind of hurt.

“Screw this.”

She crawls out of bed, slips on her outerclothes, and stomps down the halls, empty at this hour, and through Solas’s empty chambers—she doesn’t pause there, doesn’t look for lost symbols in the paintings on the wall, just stomps past the barracks, where she comes to a full stop at the door. Candlelight filtering underneath the gaps. She knocks before she can change her mind.

“ _At this hour? Well, come on in--"_

She rips open the door to find Cullen, now standing at his desk, staring right back at her. Just beginning to unclothe himself from his armor. Looking very bemused at her expression. "Oh, _Maker's breath_ \--I thought you were one of the agents," he says, pulling on his coat. Looking very stressed and sheepish about this. "My apologies, inquisitor."

"No, it was my--mistake."

It dawns on her only then that this is a very bad idea. A terrible idea if there ever was one.

 _You’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what could’ve been_.

“Are you alright?”

“Third time,” she whispers, breathlessly. “That’s the third time you asked me.”

“Yes, well, you look…frazzled,” he says, and the word sounds foreign in his tongue. Which must be what he’s thinking as well because that blush on his face immediately melts into something of embarrassment. “Are you?”

"A lil' bit, yeah."

He smiles, weakly.

“I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” she starts, softly, and it’s enough to ease out whatever tension is lingering in the air. Cullen’s face softens almost immediately as he rounds his desk, meeting her at the door where she’s been leaning against all along. “And I just—needed to say my peace. That’s all.”

“Your peace?”

“Yes, my peace.”

 _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

The words are thumping in her rib cage, threatening to crack and burst with each pulse of life. Or is that just the mark? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t care anymore either.

“I might—I don’t know. I might die. And I just want to get this off my chest because Varric said I'd die with my honor on my shiel—oh. Goodness. Can we start over?”

“Of course.”

He doesn’t even hesitate—doesn’t even notice the space between them is closing.

And then, somewhat breathlessly, it escapes her.

“I love you, Cullen."

He blinks, looking very much confused, “But…” And then sort of wary, which must come as no great surprise.

“I know. I’m sloppy. I’m not perfect. And I’m probably—I—that’s it.” She takes a breath, releases it, and leans against the door with the back of her head like an entire weight’s been shaken off her shoulders. “I’ve said my peace. I’m—done. I’m…”

 _I’m free_.

But he’s still stunned, adamantly so. She’s only aware after the fact that she’s probably overstepped some boundaries she knows nothing about. _He probably already has some woman waiting for him in Ferelden_ — _you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life. Cost yourself a lifetime of friendship and all for what? One little confession that’ll put in the footnotes of the history books_?

She pushes at the door behind her back, “Sorry for the bother. I’ll let you get back—”

He kisses her.

Cupping her cheeks, pulling her close, eliciting a whimper of surprise that turns into a whimper of acquiescing. His lips part first and there’s nothing particularly urgent about it, just longing and tender and full of _want_. _It’s alright to want_ —and that’s all she can think about as she opens her mouth, tasting him and wondering how it’s possible that he tastes simultaneously of home and comfort.

“I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath for year,” he says. “When you left, I told myself to assume the worst. The thought of you not returning—it was unbearable.”

And then.

“ _I’m so glad you lived_.”

 _Be with me_.

"I'm glad I met you," she says, looking down at the mark on her hand. "However--whatever the circumstances are. I--"

She kisses again, all the I-love-yous lost in the ether as he carries her to the desk, legs wrapped around his waist as he shoves off the last of his belongings. They unclothe themselves unceremoniously--clumsily, almost. Like they're fresh out of the cocoons of metamorphosis.

*

"When did you know?"

"You won't believe it," he says, cradling her head gently in his arms. "The moment I met you."

"Really now?"

"Yes, really. I thought you were...pretty."

"Ah, such a simple man," she grins, pressing a kiss to his cheek before settling back into the crook of his shoulder. "You should've said something earlier then."

"Perhaps," he says, running his fingers through her hair, catching every knot and easing it out slowly. "I'm rather glad I didn't."

"Why's that?"

He considers it for a moment, mulling like the answer's already escaped him. "Because you're my friend. And I thought I might lose that," he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead before hugging her tight against his chest. "Somehow the thought of that is more unimaginable than facing rejection."

She sighs, frowning, "It's terrible. You really are too perfect."

"Far from it," he says.

"The bar's too high now. I don't think I'll ever find someone as good as you," she says, a withering smile on her face. "A shame."

"So marry me then."

She blinks, "Excuse me?"

He meets her gaze, so full of desire and longing that it makes her chest ache. "I...want you. All of you. I've seen the worse this world has to offer, and--you're the only piece of it that's made everything bearable. I want to see tomorrow with you--I want to make plans with you. Please," he says, practically pleading, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Marry me."

She leans in to kiss him on the lips, drawing out the quietest groan as he wraps his arms around her waist. "I'll marry you," she says, in between breaths.

For the first time since the Inquisition's inception, Laera finally realizes she wants something beyond Corypheus, archdemons, and bloodshed.

She wants to make plans.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from my fave pink floyd song, "[time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwYX52BP2Sk)"
> 
> thinking about doing a sequel of pure marriage filth and fluff, but for now im off to play origins and seduce alistair :3
> 
> happy new year everyone!


End file.
